


Day 7: Isolation

by Drvivc (Fight_Surrender)



Series: Whumptober 2019 [6]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baz has a poodle, Dr. Snow, M/M, Mention of Natasha Pitch, Mordelia the poodle, Mr. Pitch, Simon as a Veterinarian, Whumptober 2019, veterinary au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 16:54:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21341554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_Surrender/pseuds/Drvivc
Summary: “Well, what do you think?” Mr. Pitch snaps. “I think it’s got parvo and hookworm anaemia. I’ve Googled it.”God I hate the internet.  I summon what thin threads of tact I can muster. “Thank you for your input Mr. Pitch, I’d like to complete my examination and run some tests, if you’ll let me. Then we’ll see if I can confirm your diagnosis.”Simon Snow is a veteterinarian. Basilton Pitch is one of his most difficult clients.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Whumptober 2019 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538212
Comments: 8
Kudos: 78





	Day 7: Isolation

**Simon:**

I take the chart off the door, look at the name and take a deep, calming breath.

Mr. Pitch.

I let out my breath and hang my head in defeat. _He’s back_.

Basilton Pitch was one of my most difficult clients. Entitled, demanding, questioning every recommendation I made. I admit it, I was relieved when I put his ancient Doberman to sleep two years ago. Bit morbid, I know, but it is one way to get rid of a client. He seemed like the type that would never get another dog, “can’t go through that pain again” and whatnot.

He took it—not well. The euthanasia. I mean, nobody does, but. Usually I can summon comforting words, reminisce about the dog’s life, anecdotes, etcetera. Mr. Pitch told me to hurry up and get on with it. Tears were streaming down his face; he didn’t wipe them. Refused the tissues I offered him. Just nodded his head and stalked out of the room when I was done. I’m usually good at putting clients at ease, they say I have an excellent bedside manner, but none of my charm worked on him. Abject failure.

It wasn’t even his dog; it was his mother’s. He inherited Greta after his mum passed away, car wreck, the front desk girls said. He’s nice to them, civil at least. I have no idea why he insists on only seeing me as his veterinarian. There are three other doctors in this practice, he could easily find one more to his liking. But no, he always demanded to see me. Once, when Greta was really starting to decline, he somehow managed to get my mobile number and convinced me to meet him in the office on a Sunday.

At least he pays his bills.

And also, it doesn’t help that he’s dead gorgeous.

I’m not going to think about that now. I inhale my apprehension, anxiety and fear and lock them away deep inside. I summon my “Professional Demeanor” and stride into the room. Cool as a cucumber. “Welcome back, Mr. Pitch. What brings you in today?”

“Yes. Hello, Dr. Snow.” He’s holding something small in his lap, wrapped in what looks like a blue ladies scarf. “This creature showed up at my door. It seems rather listless; don’t these things tend to run around and yap?”

He speaks like a seventy-year-old posh tosser, but he’s got to be close to my age- late twenties early thirties. He’s still holding the dog. I tentatively hold out my hands, “can I see him--her?”

“Her name is Mordelia.” He sneers at me, like I’m supposed to ascertain the gender of the dog with my x-ray vision. I don’t have x-ray vision. I can’t think straight around this bloke. He’s still holding the damn dog.

I motion to the exam table, “Lets have a look, shall we?” He reluctantly hands me the patient. I unwrap the blue cloth to find a very small, very depressed, nearly unconscious black puppy. I think it’s a poodle.

“Well, what do you think?” Mr. Pitch snaps. “I think it’s got parvo and hookworm anaemia. I’ve Googled it.”

God I hate the internet. I summon what thin threads of tact I can muster. “Thank you for your input Mr. Pitch, I’d like to complete my examination and run some tests, if you’ll let me. Then we’ll see if I can confirm your diagnosis.” Please, please let him be wrong.

“Yes, carry on.” He waves me away and proceeds to look at his phone.

I take the pup to the back. A battery of tests later: _he’s fucking right_.

I couldn’t hate him more.

“Well, it looks like you should get a veterinary degree,” I bluster with very false enthusiasm.

“No thank you,” he drawls, “then I’d have to take a pay cut.”

Because I'm a professional, I suppress the urge to punch him in the face.

“Well, er, Mordelia has parvo and hookworm anaemia, and roundworms, coccidiosis and hypoglycemia.”

“Fine. How much will it cost to fix her?” He fixes me with a bored stare.

I have the power here. I’m the doctor. I can break his heart. I can tell him it’s hopeless.

I can’t break his heart.

“Look, Mr. Pitch, this dog is in really bad shape. I might be able to fix her, but it is going to be a difficult battle and it is going to take time. She doesn’t have a lot of reserves, and we have a good chance of losing her. That said, I will do my best to try and keep that from happening.”

He stands up and looks me in the eye. His eyes are grey. “I know you will. You’re the best veterinarian in this city. Fix this dog, no matter the cost. I will be in to visit daily.”

“Wait. What?” I stutter. “Mordelia will be in the isolation ward because of the parvovirus, we don’t allow visitors there.”

He raises an imperious brow, “do you allow staff in the isolation ward?” 

“Yes.” I answer, confused.

“Then it’s not impenetrable. I will be visiting my dog daily.” “You will have to gown up, in full protective gear,” I bluster. Who does he think he is?

“Fine. I’ll be here every day at four.” And so it goes, for over a week now, Mr. Pitch arrives at four o’ clock sharp, he puts on his yellow paper gown, blue bouffant hair cover, mask, gloves and shoe covers. He looks both ridiculous and strangely vulnerable— and rather hot, actually. We’ve placed a stool in the ward for him. He sits there for an hour, stroking the pup, talking to it quietly. Full conversations.

I make it my mission to walk in on him when he’s like this. Soft, kind, human.

At first, he would put up his walls and become his usual awful self. But now, after all these days and with the pup starting to improve, the looks he gives me are less guarded. His words less barbed.

I mean, he’s still not nice, by any stretch, but he’s definitely less mean.

Finally, after almost two weeks in hospital, I declare little Mordy well enough to go home.

Mr. Pitch is waiting in the exam room when I bring up the pup. Shaved and poked and prodded but much livelier. She bit my technician when they were removing the IV. This dog is going to be a pistol.

“Here you go, Mr. Pitch, just feed her a bland diet for the next few weeks, and she should be right as rain.”

“Baz.” He says.

“What?” I reply.

“Baz. Call me Baz.”

This is weird, I’m not sure what’s happening here. “Erm, OK.”

“I want to thank you,” he says. He looks pained, “For looking after my dog.”

“Um, you’re welcome, all in a day’s work, yeah.” I’m stammering a bit, I know. I don’t know what to do with this version of Mr. Pitch. I’m very uncomfortable. I need him to insult me.

“I know I haven’t been particularly kind. To you. Over the years.” Now he’s the one stammering.

“Look,” he says. He looks up at me, then down at the dog, who has started yapping in her cage.

“Can I take you out?” Eyes back on me, “for a pint, after work?”

For the life of me, I have no idea why I said yes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a veterinarian by trade, so it was fun pulling from personal experience for this fic. I've never been asked out by a client though.


End file.
